


teeth

by iimpavid



Series: unfinished duet [7]
Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Aftercare, Biting, Bloodplay, Established Relationship, Light Masochism, Other, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:33:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22286416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iimpavid/pseuds/iimpavid
Summary: He gets like this sometimes: so easy for them.
Relationships: Peter Nureyev/Hieron, Peter Nureyev/Original Character(s)
Series: unfinished duet [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564903
Comments: 13
Kudos: 17





	teeth

**Author's Note:**

> In case any of you were wondering "what the heck possessed iimpavid to write seven million fics about voidteatime's OC?" the answer is: this ficlet. This is the one that started it all.

Peter tends to laugh in bed, a compulsion that’s either precious or intimidating depending on who’s in charge, but he passed giggly... a _while_ ago. He’s shaking a little in Hieron’s arms like they’ve got him strung out and they’ve barely begun. 

He gets like this sometimes: so _easy_ for them. 

They think that this is the natural consequence of all the time he spends with his head in the sand instead of attending to the present: it’s easy to overwhelm him by making him pay attention. 

Hieron certainly has his undivided attention now that they’ve got him caught in their teeth like so much raw meat. 

It’s not quite as dramatic as all that. But they _have_ managed to get him prone. To get a handful of his hair and a mouthful of his shoulder and their claws dug into his sternum, too, just for the fun of it. They drag them down his belly for the visceral pleasure of feeling him twitch under the bright lines they raise— careful not to break the skin. There’s not much skin there between the inside of him and the woven, silver plate of their claws and he knows it. 

He likes their claws. He always has. Ever since Aster Wright first considered stealing them right off their hand in a gallery on Pluto (as if they weren’t paying attention from the second he walked into the room)— 

What a sweet thing he was then. 

Still sweet in the present, too, now that Hieron’s won the game— or else Peter intended to lose from the outset. Either way he’s theirs and he sighs a litany of happy, pained noises while they keep him _right there_ , flat on his back. Soft. Vulnerable. 

It’s a surprise when the taut flesh under their teeth _pops_. Gives under the pressure of their jaw with the same soft bitterness as fruit skin. The surprised noise Hieron makes in the back of their throat comes out like a growl. 

It’s a very different thing than sucking bruises into him until they bleed this sudden pulse of red between their teeth.

They pull back. Surprised. A little hesitant. 

But he’s staring up at them glassy-eyed and unafraid of the blood clung to their lower lip so they press and dig their fingers to the center of the fresh bite, encouraging the little wounds, the punctured pattern of their incisors and canines, to bleed. Mesmerized by the contrast of blood painted over skin and the deep impressions that will bruise up prettily in the days to come. 

They rub their fingers together to watch his blood cling to the ridges and valleys of their fingerprints and they’re possessed by a need to taste it— but then it hits them. _That’s_ hardly fair. 

“You’ve made a mess, my dear,” Hieron says. 

He blinks up at them, eyes black as sloes, slow to understand their words. Then he frowns because he’s not sure at all whether this means they approve of his bleeding all over their bed sheets. 

Hieron smiles, reassuring and warm, and pushes their fingers into Peter’s mouth. 

His answering sound hums stunned in their bones like the taste of his own blood comes as an unexpected shock. But he sucks their fingers clean with the same attention to detail he applies to everything he’s ever worked for: intent and desperate to please. Hieron doesn't even have to hold him down, doesn’t have to ask. He has his own hands twisting and grasping in the sheets. Peter will stay where they put him, waiting and wanting and watchful while he works his tongue over their fingers, mindful of his own sharp teeth, until they want him to move. 

At their first twitch of movement back, Peter lets his mouth fall open for them— he can be open for them, only for them, this soft, bleeding thing— and they pull their fingers free. Cradle his cheek in their palm and notice how he doesn’t notice at all the gleaming smear of saliva they leave across his skin. He turns to chase their hand and press a kiss to the inside of their wrist. 

They cradle his head in their hands. Make him look at them. Trace the filigreed claw capping their thumb, feather-light, right along the delicate line of his eye socket. He doesn’t flinch or blink and just breathes deep when they tell him, “What a good boy you are, angel,” like their adoration is the air itself. 

They consider kissing him but decide against it. It wouldn’t be kind to distract him from the claw tip they drag down his jaw— and _he tilts his head back to give them his throat_ , sweet thing— it’s best for him to stay _right here_. Goosebumps rising over his skin as they draw out the midline of his body. He convulses a little beneath them when they get to the faint eight inches of scarring running down his breastbone. Tissue he’s carefully tended to every morning he’s ever stayed with them and never talked about beyond telling them they could touch it, if they wanted to. Even though its nerves hadn’t healed quite right and send scattered signals all across his torso, needle-sharp and startling, when anything touches it. Like fingers pressing a dozen places at once.

Their mouth follows their claws. A prayer of heat over his heavy heartbeat.

They can only imagine what it feels like. 

Judging by the soft, “ _Oh_ ,” he breathes, it’s a good feeling.

* * *

"I can hear you thinking." 

Peter hums, "No you can't," arguing out of habit but he’s distracted-- and not by Hieron.

They carefully _don't_ sigh.

He's stayed where they put him, at least, when they extricated themself from the bed to use the bathroom and retrieve the first aid kit. Rolled over onto his stomach and tracing a finger over the white-on-white pattern of their bedsheets, a few stains of new blood drying dark here and there. And now he's thinking. Gathered back in on himself like a flower closing at the end of the day. About what, they could only guess: the two of them, maybe, where he'd been last night, where he intended to go next, if he would stay. Usually he did but, sometimes, they woke up to their dogs in bed instead of Peter and a note without substance on the kitchen island. 

"Yes, I can. Stop it. I'm not finished with you yet." 

He huffed but there was hope yet: his glasses were still abandoned on the nightstand.

The bite on his shoulder, the gouges they left down his back, are the only thing they want to look at, to touch, for the rest of the night at least. They're shallower than they'd felt, bled less than they'd seemed to, but they can't be left to scar. They did their best to never leave him anything more lasting than bruises and even those they gave a token effort to keeping in places he could hide them, if he needed to.

"I'm not finished with you yet," they repeat and straddle his back to make their point and because flattery had never failed them yet, "Come back and stay a while, my paradox, let me bask in your beauty a little longer." 

He drags a pillow under himself, the slight arch pops his entire back, rests one cheek on it and lets his eyes close. "I haven't gone anywhere." 

They lean down to kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Not now, but you were somewhere else for a moment." 

That truth he doesn't argue with.

Their mouth runs, satisfied with Peter's quiet, of its own accord, "It's sweet, how you let me take you apart, darling. No-- that's not it, not all of it. You deserve a better word... _Transcendent_. You are transcendent.”

He doesn't flinch at the astringent they spritz over the symmetrical scratches along his spine and take clean gauze to wipe away the drying blood in the places where they gouged a little too deep. 

"I could spend days up to my elbows in your ribcage and still you would give me something, _someone_ , new in every inch of sinew. You contain multitudes." 

His breath catches and they pretend not to notice how he turns his face further into the pillow. He could try to hide from them, if he really wanted to, it wouldn't stop them from looking. 

"I'll never get used to this, the way you _let me_." 

They take their time with the bite wound. Gentle and persistent cleaning each millimeter. Meticulously placing trimmed pieces of viskin over the individual punctures. It's a level of detail that's not strictly necessary-- but they want him to have it. 

"You give me so much. It's only fair that you stay and let me put you back together after, too."

A little muffled, a little damp, he takes a shuddering breath. "Thank you." 

**Author's Note:**

> Remember kids: comments feed the terrible machine that churns out fanfiction for greedy eyes to consume.


End file.
